


The Memoir

by EnidEarthling



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Crime, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Memoirs, Prison, Romance, amateur sleuth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnidEarthling/pseuds/EnidEarthling
Summary: Years after the events of Knives Out, Marta visits Ransom in prison and gifts him Harlan's unpublished memoir. But that act connects the two when someone else confesses to Ransom's crimes and he is released. Is someone else in the Thrombey clan coming after Marta and will Harlan's memoir help her solve the case?
Relationships: Marta Cabrera & Ransom Drysdale, Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you can... any thoughts or suggestions really help me to keep on writing:)

PRESENT DAY

Boxes littered the entirety of the foyer, stretching along the hardwood. They were stacked four high in the corner, spaced out in the hallway, and gathered end to end en route to the kitchen. From his spot at the large front door, Benoit Blanc could hear movement in the study, but he wasn’t sure how to get there. He surveyed the makeshift obstacle course and silently calculated the probability of success for each possible path before forging ahead. 

Left foot over the first banker’s box, a less than solid step, right ankle twisting, body shaking. Right leg kicking over a tower of two boxes, his foot flailing outward searching for uncovered ground. Another turn followed by a semi-jump and he was almost there. Like a game of Twister, Blanc moved through the foyer diligently, careful not to tip over a single box.

“I see we are making a mess of things." Blanc stepped into the study and let his body rest for a moment against the rich, mahogany door frame. “But it is your house, after all. You can do what you please.”

“It’s been my house for over three years." Marta Cabrera didn't look up. She was sitting cross-legged on the large, intricately woven, red patterned rug that took up the far corner of the study. She was surrounded by the same type of boxes, but some were missing their cardboard lids. Blanc could see the contents: paper, stacks and stacks of paper. 

Blanc delicately placed his long, beige coat on the closest column of boxes before tiptoeing towards her. She sat, unmoving; the boxes forming a kind of wall around her. When he got as close as the obstacles would allow, Blanc knelt down before her, awaiting acknowledgement.

His presence unnerved her and soothed her all at once - always had. Benoit Blanc had a way of seeing things, a way of seeing her that made calling him the only option. He would tell her what needed to be done and why, and Marta had pledged to herself that whatever decisions he made, she would follow them to the letter.

She looked up, her green eyes peeking over the boxes stacked just in front of her, and caught Blanc’s gaze. “I need your help.”

Blanc smiled. “I gathered as much, but I’m not yet entirely sure what assistance I can provide based on the scene before me.”

“Here.” Marta coolly passed him a stack of papers from the box to her left. 

Blanc read the cover sheet aloud, “Trial transcript: the State of Massachusetts versus Hugh Ransom Drysdale.”

Marta then passed him another stack, this one lighter, but more or less the same. It was an abridged version of Ransom’s trial containing only the witness testimony: the statements of Benoit Blanc, Marta Cabrera, Meg and Joni Thrombey, and the police. But it lacked any testimony from Linda or Walt - Ransom’s mother and uncle respectively - both of whom had used what little influence they had left to secure deals with the state’s attorney well before the trial had begun.

Meeting his eyes, Marta knew Blanc was now painfully aware of the testimony she wished him to look over. But she couldn’t have known he had already done so of his own accord just two days prior - the day word got out that Ransom Drysdale would be getting out of prison.

“Marta, this is a complex situation and, unfortunately, you won’t find solace in the pages of this transcript." Blanc's thick drawl permeated the space between them as he stood. One hand still holding the transcript, Blanc extended the other towards her. She took it, her muscles aching as she stretched.

 _How long have I been sitting like that,_ she thought to herself, but the answer loudly beat within her head. From the moment she’d received the call that Ransom was being released, she’d pulled all the court documents out and made a war room of her house.

“Did you ask me here to help you find a way to keep Mr. Drysdale in prison?” Blanc asked, releasing her hand. She tucked it into the deep pocket of her grey wool cardigan. He didn't wait for her reply. “Believe me, if there was a way I would have found it; if there was a way, we’d both be sharing a drink by the fireplace, clinking glasses to our good fortune.”

“I don’t understand,” Marta shook her head. “Richard is a liar, just like his son. But that shouldn’t mean Random--”

Blanc cut her off. “The elder Drysdale didn’t just lie, Marta. He admitted culpability.”

Marta huffed uncharacteristically and stepped over the boxes, pushing her way past Blanc. She followed the same tentative steps he had taken into the room, looking down at her handiwork as a soft murmur escaped her lips. 

Blanc watched her intensely, but Marta couldn’t let his concern distract her. She needed his mind, not his pity. Finally, she found the right box and muttered, “I know it's in here.”

“Marta, I will read whatever you want me to read, investigate whatever you want me to investigate, but I must admit, Richard’s confession throws a mighty hefty wrench into the reasonable doubt surrounding Ransom’s guilt."

“It was barely a confession,” Marta grumbled in reply. “And it shouldn’t have been believed.”

“Lieutenant Elliott and I agree with you, Marta. But the state’s attorney is of a different mind.”

One night, after sharing a meal with his ex-wife and former brother-in-law, Richard Drysdale phoned an attorney and confessed to killing Fran. According to the meeting Marta had with prosecutors, Richard had turned himself in, racked with guilt and deeply remorseful. Linda and Walt had corroborated Richard’s downward spiral - alcoholism, rampant unemployment - and told the state’s attorney they believed it all stemmed from framing his own son for a crime he didn’t commit. Yes, Ransom was still responsible for arson and attempted murder, but would he have done those things had his father not pushed the narrative forward? The state’s attorney suggested Ransom was an upstanding citizen who had been entrapped by an eager team of amateur sleuths.

Marta had recognized that this new group of prosecutors didn’t believe Harlan’s death was anything but suicide, and if the starting of their story was mired in doubt then the confession she’d elicited from Ransom was anything but a definitive ending.

She had wanted to scream: _How can you believe this?_ She had wanted to scream: _Alcoholism and unemployment are Richard’s norm_. She had wanted to scream: _Linda and Walt should never be trusted._ But Marta had grown weary of being labelled by the law. 

Her mother had taught her that when a woman raises her voice, even with provocation, her views will be ignored. Marta often wondered what it must have been like for her mother, living under the specter of deportation; a woman of colour, a woman with a secret who couldn’t express herself for decades. Regardless of the money and her mother’s newly acquired citizenship, Marta knew those biases never went away.

“Maybe the state’s attorney should see this.” Marta pulled a stack of pages out of the new box and waved them excitedly in the air. “This is a copy of your original interviews from the day we found Fran.”

“Marta, I’ve read those over more times than I wish to recount.”

“Then you know Richard couldn’t possibly have killed her. He has an alibi. They all do, except Ransom.”

Marta suddenly felt her stomach turn as the words pressed themselves from her mouth. She feared the telltale evidence of her lies would soon follow and dropped to her knees. As the urge to vomit bubbled through her core, Blanc thrust a wastepaper basket before her and in an instant bile broke free of her clasped lips. 

Blanc knelt down beside her, as closely as the boxes would allow. “Their alibis are a matter of supposition.”

Marta inhaled deeply, then placed the basket as far away as she could reach. She pressed up against the closest box, unsteady on her feet. Blanc reached out to help her, but she politely refused, her eyes letting him know she needed space to collect herself.

Blanc nodded understandingly and walked to the small, leather couch just beneath the window. He pushed aside a mountain of paperwork before taking up its space with a languid sigh. 

“Marta, while you and I might believe Richard was telling the truth then and lying now, a different observer could believe the opposite. Perhaps he was lying to me three year ago. Perhaps he truly feels sorry for his son and wants to make things right.”

Marta scoffed. “Unlikely.”

Blanc chuckled softly. “Agreed, but not everyone has your regurgatory condition. If the law believes Richard to be guilty, there’s little we can do to show them it’s a lie.”

Marta nodded in agreement, her whole body resigning itself to defeat. Benoit Blanc was her last chance to stop this. _But it's over,_ she thought. _There's nothing to be done._

“Rest assured Ransom Drysdale won’t be materializing on your doorstep anytime soon, if at all. There’s still statements to be taken from the family, sentencing to be done. The legal work will be long and--”

“Linda is pushing it forward. She’s suddenly standing by her son. I got a call from the new prosecutor, and he says Ransom will be out next week.”

Blanc sighed again, this time his exhale was dripping with disappointment. Marta wasn’t sure if he was sorry for himself, for the case he had assembled and now watched fall apart - or if he was sorry for her, sorry he could not protect her.

“I suppose the elder Dysdale makes more sense as the culprit, from a public relations point of view. Save the son, the direct blood relative, and throw the cheating husband to the wolves.”

“I’m worried,” Marta whispered.

“I don’t blame you, but look around. This is your home now, like you said, and we can ensure it’s fortified against the intrusions of this family. I’m compelled to help; it’s why you called. Allow me to make this place safe, a fortress against your past perpetrators. Ransom will not come here.”

“Yes, he will.”

Marta shyly looked over at Blanc, now on the edge of his seat, hands wringing excitedly. The anticipation of truth roused them both, but Marta has been holding this truth to herself for far too long. The world had to know Richard was lying, they had to know Ransom was a killer, they had to right this wrong.

“Ransom will come here…” she continued. “Because Harlan told him to.”

**********

1 YEAR EARLIER

The day Marta Cabrera first visited Ransom in prison she was sure it wouldn’t rain. Her mother had warned her - _take an umbrella_ \- but Marta stood on the porch of what was once Harlan Thrombey’s home and craned her neck to the sky. Those grey clouds were so far away, she was sure she’d outrun them. 

“I don’t understand why you’re going to see him." It wasn’t the first time her mother had said that. _I don’t understand_ had become a familiar refrain, repeated again and again whenever Marta did something, almost anything, that had to do with the Drysdale/Thrombey clan.

“I’ve explained already, Mama." Marta didn't want to go into more detail than that, didn’t want to provoke another argument that would leave her flustered and red-faced before seeing the man that had tried to kill her. She wanted to look confident and in control. She wanted Ransom to know he hadn’t bested her - that he never would.

“These people are not--”

“My responsibility." Marta completed her mother’s sentence with a heavy sigh.

In the year following the deaths of Harlan and Fran, the first year Marta took control of the house and the money, she was dogged by the Thrombeys. Walt would routinely show up at the publishing house, Linda suddenly shopped at the same market, and Richard brazenly followed her every time she ran an errand. Marta had become accustomed to looking over her shoulder, her back always arched in suspicion, her sneaker-clad feet always ready to run.

In that first year she had also found Harlan’s memoir stuffed into the false bottom of his desk drawer. It was rough and unfinished. Even with a publishing company at her fingertips, Marta didn’t think anyone could make enough sense of his scribbles to put it out into the world. Nor was she sure Harlan would have approved. He had been a prolific writer; she knew there had to be a reason he’d left so many pieces incomplete. But in the pages of that poorly rendered life story, Marta saw a love for his family he rarely expressed aloud. 

She had read those half-finished chapters over and over, at times breathing in the words so deeply she felt as if Harlan were still alive. But most days, after turning the last page, she felt suffocating guilt. She didn't like knowing Walt’s wife, Donna, was afraid of her husband - a fear she had felt all her life, being the daughter of an aggressive and abusive father. She didn’t like knowing how much Linda had once truly loved Richard - that the marriage wasn’t a ploy against her father, marrying a man he deemed unworthy. She didn't like knowing there was a sadness in Ransom - one that his grandfather had seen and put to paper, but did nothing about. And she didn’t like knowing the contents of the book’s dedication page - she didn’t like feeling it was her job to fulfill Harlan’s wishes.

By the second year, Marta and the Thrombeys had been through the courts more than once. Most of the disputes had been thrown out, but each time Marta was required to defend her standing as Harlan’s beneficiary. It was the reason her home was filled with documents, and her call history revealed more communication with lawyers that year than during Ransom’s trial.

When the third year rolled into existence, Marta told her mother she was going to visit Ransom in prison. Her mother had screamed, then cried, then threatened to leave if Marta went through with it, before shouting herself out and reluctantly agreeing. But standing on the porch, looking up at the rain-free sky, Marta felt as if she’d imagined that approval the same way her mother was imagining a coming storm.

“You’ll call me when you get there." Her mother stood at the door, hands on hips.

Marta nodded in reply as she marched down the steps to her car. 

“And you’ll call when you leave.”

“Mama, I will be fine. Everything will be fine.”

**********

Hugh Ransom Drysdale cautiously looked up from a copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_ when he heard a male guard shout his name. Before acknowledging the guard, revealing his hiding place behind the lone standing shelf of books the prison provided, Ransom waited for the other shoe to drop.

He had made sure to keep his interactions with the guards to a minimum. Plenty of them had saddled up to his cell during the early weeks of his incarceration. They were under the impression he still had money, lots and lots of money. And even behind bars, a rich man was well received by prison personnel. Perhaps he could get things for them and their families on the outside, in exchange for some protection on the inside. Ransom never let on that he had completely lost his fortune, and thankfully much of the trial had been placed under gag order due to its notoriety. 

And even though he hated her, dreamt nearly nightly that first year about having plunged a real blade through her chest, Ransom was thankful for Marta’s reserved nature. She had never given an interview about the case, never written a book or sold the rights to the story of her and Harlan. Marta had come to trial only once, the day she testified, and then she flitted out of his life as easily as she’d arrived.

“Drysdale!” The guard yelled again from his place at the door to their pitiful excuse of a library. “Visitor!”

Ransom immediately closed the book and threw it on the bottom shelf. He had read Steinbeck before - many, many times. The Dust Bowl could barely hold his attention without any outside stimuli, but the idea of a visitor made the book, any book, completely worthless. 

He jumped to his feet, perhaps a tad too excitedly, and strode toward the guard.

“Been a long time since someone came to see you, Drysdale,” the guard quipped, as they walked down the hall to the visitor’s room together. “Make sure you keep your hands to yourself.”

Ransom stopped walking. He wondered why he wouldn’t, why this guard would assume his hands would wander - that he would want to touch whoever was on the other side of the thick, metal door. His mother had stopped coming before the first year was out. His father had never visited at all. Meg and her various boyfriends and girlfriends and fuck-friends sometimes stopped by unannounced, but during his second year Ransom scratched her name from his approved list of guests. He’d gotten tired of being the most interesting thing about Meg, and he knew she was better off being herself rather than trudging out her homicidal cousin just to get laid.

“Drysdale, you fucking coming or what?” The guard held open the door to the visitor’s room.

As Random tentatively moved forward, it dawned on him that it was a Tuesday - visitors came on Thursdays. Whoever was in that room had to have influence, money maybe, and if it wasn’t his family, there could be only one person left. The realization shot through him and his whole body froze. “I swear, Drysdale. I don't have time for your shit." The guard sighed, reaching out and grabbing Ransom’s upper arm. Ransom lurched forward and with a not so subtle shove he found himself in the visitor’s room staring straight at Marta Cabrera.

“Hello, Ransom,” she said, as if it was the most normal greeting in the world.

Marta stood just beneath a row of bulletproof windows. The late afternoon sunlight cast down upon her small frame, illuminating the features that more than two years in prison had failed to erase from his mind. Her thick, brown hair was pulled back into a set of familiar braids secured at the nape of her neck, and a black coat partially hid a deep emerald sweater. Her hands were secured tightly inside the pockets of her coat, but gone was the slight hunch forward and the inward roll of her shoulders. She was wearing a confidence Ransom had only seen once before. 

For what felt like a full minute, he stood inside the threshold of the visitor’s room staring at the woman who ruined his life. Yes, logically he understood the ruin had come at his own hands, but those old dreams of feeling her hot breath against his cheek as a blade eased into her breast came back to him. 

In prison you could either work to get right or work to get revenge. Ransom wasn’t about to attend prayer circles out in the yard, and despite all his bluster he couldn’t plot a hit from behind bars. He had seen too many men get busted for it, and solitary was a punishment Ransom had only received once; he knew once was enough. So, he gave people the illusion he was getting right - staying out of trouble, sticking to the rules, and working his state-mandated prison job without incident. But on the inside, during that first year, he had been plotting - not to hire someone to kill Marta, but to do it himself. He had imagined getting out and getting even. 

It was a full year wasted. And now, another year on, she was standing before him and all his revenge fantasies floated away. _Fuck_ , he thought. _Fucking Marta._

“Can I leave you, Drysdale? Or are you gonna mess this up?”

Ransom looked over his shoulder to the guard, still standing in the doorway, his hand resting on the baton strapped to his waistband. Ransom nodded his compliance and the guard stepped back before slamming the door shut behind him - the heavy bang of metal on metal echoing in the room like a gunshot.

“Should we sit?” Marta gestured to one of the five tables before them. Each table was bolted to the ground, its steel chairs welded to the posts.

Without replying, Ransom moved to the table in the middle and slid into the seat. As his hands came to rest on the cool, steel top he realized he wasn’t wearing handcuffs. Looking down, he spied ankles free of chains. Depending on a prisoner’s privileges, their attitude, and their ability to kiss ass they could find themselves in the visitor’s room without restraints and without a guard watching over them - but Ransom had never had that before, never been able to fully gain anyone’s trust. He might have been following the rules on the inside, but most people still knew he was a manipulator, so the handcuff-free wrists told him Marta had worked some magic with the warden. She had pulled strings. 

“Are you joining me?” He asked, and Marta silently replied by finding her spot at the table across from him. “I haven’t had a visitor in a while, Cabrera. Certainly wasn’t expecting you.”

“Well, I won’t be staying long. I just wanted to give you something.”

Ransom hummed. “I can’t help but notice you don’t have anything with you.”

“They have to check it all over.” 

“Gotta be sure you’re not trying to bust me out of here.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth.”

As if on cue, the door to the visitor’s room creaked open, metal scrapping on its own hinges. A different guard entered holding a box. Ransom could see it had been foolishly wrapped in brown parchment paper and twine. Marta must not have known they would tear it apart looking for contraband. The guard dropped it roughly on the table between them, lingering a little longer than Ransom would have liked. It was obvious the man was trying to stare down Marta’s top, but her clothing wouldn’t allow it. Instead, the guard inhaled Marta’s scent, something Ransom had pegged as sandalwood the moment she’d sat down, before storming wordlessly from the room.

“Manners apparently aren’t his strong suit.”

Marta slyly smiled. “And they're yours?”

“That was slightly more salty than I’d expect out of you.” Ransom returned her smile, but Marta quickly let her face snap back to its default state, a state Ransom could not read. Had it not been for her habit of heaving whenever she lied, Ransom might have never been able to gain her confidence two years before. Perhaps that was why she was being so aloof, so terse.

Marta took the box in hand, trying to fix the torn wrapping before pushing it toward him. 

“So, what did you bring me?” Ransom pulled back the parchment and dug into the box. As his fingers brushed the paper, his heart sank. Without seeing a cover, he knew it was an unpublished manuscript and there was only one author in common he and Marta shared.

“I found it in the false bottom of a desk drawer.” 

“Another novel by the great Harlan Thrombey.” Ransom scoffed. “This place has 100 books tops and at least 20 are his. What makes you think I’d want to read any more of his shit?”

Marta was taken aback, and the blanching of her face perversely pleased him.

“You haven’t changed,” she said.

“Neither have you. Pretending you care about people and then fucking with their minds.”

“I would never--”

Ransom leaned forward. “Save it, okay? I know you better than that, better than most. I know you’re a liar just like the rest of us, except your lie is that you’re not as innocent or pure as you’d like people to believe. You had that idiotic faux-Southern sleuth eating out of your hand. I’m not that easy, Marta.”

“Not easy?” Marta pressed back and slid out of her chair. Ransom wanted to follow suit, but he knew better than to provoke the guards who were surely watching their interaction via the video camera hung in the corner over the door. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Ransom. Remember, I’m the reason you’re here.”

“How could I forget?”

Marta opened her mouth to speak, to argue against his indignation, but stopped. Instead, she crossed her arms and breathed deeply, steadying herself.

“Nothing to say? Or nothing you can say without chucking up all over the floor?” 

Marta glared at him, but he knew her confidence had been slightly fractured. The thought made his heartbeat quicken.

Ransom smiled. “Why did you really come here, Cabrera? Did your therapist tell you this might be the way to get closure? Or did you finally muster up the courage to stick it to me?”

“Stick it to you?” Marta scoffed. Ransom watched as she let her arms fall, only to stuff her hands back into the safety of her pockets. She fidgeted and he knew she wanted to shout at him, but that wasn't her style - at least it hadn’t been before he went to prison. 

“What is it, Cabrera?” He mocked. “Come on, you can tell me. What’s a little honesty between mortal enemies?”

Shaking her head, Marta took two large steps back to the table and swiftly slid into the seat across from him. “You’re the same selfish, cruel, lost, lonely, little boy who thought killing his grandfather would solve all his problems. The same egotistical trust funder who blames everyone for his misfortune. The same asshole who thinks he can trip me up with words--”

Ransom’s laughter interjected. “Asshole? Cabrera, tell me what you really think.”

Marta sighed heavily before pulling the package back toward her side of the table. Ransom watched as she flicked a stray edge of parchment with her index finger again and again, the soft noise acting like a metronome. Despite himself, Ransom felt his bluster ease.

Finally, Marta spoke. “We’re not mortal enemies...”

Rummaging into the box, she pulled free the bound pages.

“...and it’s not a novel. It’s Harlan’s memoir.”

Ransom raised an eyebrow. “So, I take it all those insults were his.”

“No, of course--” Marta stopped suddenly, as her body lurched forward. She brought her right hand up and clamped it over her mouth as a shield.

“Fuck, Cabrera. Do not puke in here, or they’ll never let me have a visitor again!” Ransom shouted, as he leaned back in his chair.

Marta shook her head from side to side as she swallowed down her bile. Centering herself, breathing in and out, in and out, her eyes found Ransom’s - a look of worry painting them both.

“I shouldn't have come here,” she whispered through her own hand.

Ransom sighed and reached out for the memoir that sat on the table between them. He opened the newly bound book to the middle and let his finger run down the page until it fell upon the beginning of a paragraph. He read: “We spent that summer awash in sunlight, drinking rum on the beach naked, taking Polaroids of our tanned bodies before burning them in the always stoked fire.”

Marta lowered her hand and smiled.

“Please tell me he’s not talking about my grandmother.”

Marta rolled her eyes in response.

“What? I’m just looking for all those things you said: selfish, cruel, egotistical… although, I think we both know those particular adjectives describe any of the Thrombey-Drysdale clan.”

“Lost… Lonely…” She added.

Ransom closed the book and again pushed it away. As he caught her deep, green eyes Marta lowered her lashes. She seemed unsure of her next move; but that she had driven nearly an hour to bring him the final words of his grandfather, a man he'd tried to kill while placing the blame at her feet - he just couldn’t figure out her motives. He had accused her of feigning innocence and purity, and he had meant it. Marta Cabrera was more sly than she led others to believe. But he had also called her a liar, something her telltale stomach made nearly impossible. _She came here for me, to make me feel better, to give me something she thought Harlan would want me to have._

“I think I should go.” Marta stood again. Ransom turned to check the clock behind him, the one sitting snugly inside a metal cage. Roughly seven minutes had passed since their conversation began. Marta had beaten Linda’s record by two whole minutes - Ransom chuckled at the thought.

“He wrote a lot of good things too, Ransom.” 

Snapping to attention, Ransom found Marta standing at the metal door, her wide eyes trained upon him. She nodded to the memoir as if imploring him to read it, before turning away to knock on the door. It quickly creaked open and she slipped out of view. 

Ransom was left alone with his gift. He grabbed the book, almost out of spite, and yanked back the cover page to reveal the dedication: _To Ransom, my younger self, my better self. May you always know that you can come home._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies - this update took a little while.  
> I am hoping to do one chapter a week (more if I can manage, since I am currently working on two stories at the same time).
> 
> I hope you like it - and if you do, any comments/reviews would really help me out.  
> Thanks for reading.

Rain pelted the prison’s asphalt parking lot, as Marta Cabrera stood under the narrow awning just outside the visitor entrance. Her mother had been right; she should have taken an umbrella. As she ran for her car, thick globs of water saturating her heavy, black coat, Marta felt some of the tension she’d been holding ease. She had let Ransom get to her; she had let him under her skin. The possibility had always been there, but Marta had convinced herself that the power rested in her hands. After all, she was the one on the outside, the one who hadn’t been convicted of a crime. And yet, Ransom Drysdale smirked and scoffed and called her Cabrera - _I hate that_ \- and all her power drifted away.

Roughly sliding into the driver’s seat, Marta slammed her car door closed and sighed. She’d done what she had set out to do - she’d given Ransom the memoir. It had been obvious the first time she read it that the book was meant for him. Not only had the dedication page been made out to Ransom, but there were countless stories inside about Harlan’s favourite grandchild. 

Marta learned it was Ransom who saved his parents' marriage during their first and second flirtations with divorce. At the age of four, he had begged his father not to leave them and Richard hadn’t - but according to Harlan’s memoir the affair Richard was having lasted another year. At the age of 15, Ransom blackmailed his father not to leave them and Richard hadn’t - but according to Harlan's memoir the pictures Ransom claimed to have didn’t exist. When Richard discovered the ruse, he went back to his barista girlfriend, but not before buying Ransom a brand-new BMW.

Marta learned that when Wanetta lost the majority of her eyesight, Ransom would read to her. Sure, they were Playboy articles, but Harlan had always been a fan of that particular magazine’s journalistic aspirations and so he didn’t mind.

And Marta learned that it was Ransom who taught Meg to drive along the backroads around the Thrombey estate. She wrecked the transmission doing a difficult handbrake turn - something that certainly wouldn't have been on the test - but Ransom never scolded her. In fact, according to Harlan, he bought her and her friends a celebratory bottle of top-shelf vodka when she finally got her license, then played lookout while Meg made it to first base with a girl named Sarah on the back porch. 

Sitting in the car, Marta wondered if she had just met that version of Ransom. The man who had tried to help her after Harlan’s death was a façade, but the man who tried in vain to spar with her across a prison table seemed like a semi-decent son, great-grandson, and cousin. 

_When did my standards get so low?_ Marta thought to herself as an image of Ransom’s stubble and ocean blue eyes played across her mind. _Stop it!_ She screamed to herself, the words banging off the inside of her skill. _Just stop._

**********

PRESENT DAY

“Perhaps I’ve missed a crucial plot point, Marta, but I don't think merely giving the man a book would make him think you want him as a house guest.” Benoit Blanc was sitting in Marta’s kitchen nursing a black coffee. His back was to the large window that faced the expanse of the yard and his focus was solely on her.

Marta was standing behind the kitchen island, attempting to finish her own drink, but getting lost in the predicament at hand - as Blanc would say. She had put too much sugar in her first cup and dumped it down the drain. Now, she was looking down at cup number two and wondering if she’d made the same mistake. Sighing heavily, she scooped a teaspoon and dropped it in her trusty mug, watching the white crystals melt.

“It’s not just the memoir, but what it said.” Marta reminded him.

“Yes, and I'm sure a man like Mr. Drysdale has many a trick up his sleeve, even now, but this seems hardly the best course of action. Richard takes the fall and Ransom elbows his way in here to what? What is his end, Marta?”

“I don't know. To get control of the money.”

“Perhaps, but the whole lot of them have been trying to do that for the last three years to no avail. I admit I underestimated the younger Drysdale at first, but I cannot foresee a future where Harlan Thombey’s fortune finds itself in that man’s back account.”

“But…” Marta stopped herself, not sure how to proceed. She took a sip of her coffee and winced - too much sugar. She turned her back to Blanc and tossed the liquid down the drain, watching the overly flavoured water slosh about the sink.

“Please excuse my forwardness, Marta, but I feel as if there is something you’re not telling me.”

Blanc placed his coffee cup on the table before him and leaned forward. “In fact, I know there’s something you’re not telling me. Normally, I would let the truth fall naturally, like ripened fruit from a tree. But I fear we don't have that kind of time.”

Marta turned slowly to face him, her head hung low. “I’ve been visiting him.”

“Yes, for a year now.”

Marta nodded in agreement. “I didn't mean for it to happen. It just… did.”

Blanc smiled. “Well, this group can be quite compelling. I admit to a slight fascination myself, but I must confess your softening to Ransom and not, let’s say, Walt, seems odd to say the least.”

“Walt?! The man who threatened to have my mother deported? The man who stalks me at Blood Like Wine?”

“Ransom, the man who tried to kill you.”

Marta fell forward onto her elbows, the kitchen island catching her. She rested her face heavily in her hands and groaned. She couldn’t lie - they both knew it - but that didn't make it any easier to explain her continued presence in Ransom’s life… or his in hers.

“If I asked you not to pry, what would you do?” Marta asked Blanc, her voice muffled through her hands.

“I would comply, but I don't suspect you called me here to leave me in the dark.”

“No, I didn’t.” She replied, her head shaking in agreement. Marta righted herself, an exaggerated sigh escaping her lips. 

“So, then,” Blanc said, taking up his coffee cup again. “Start at the beginning.”

**********

1 YEAR EARLIER

Ringing pierced her rest and Marta whimpered in reply. She was sleeping on the couch in Harlan’s former office, a book open on her lap. It wasn’t one of his. Normally, she liked to read his work, especially now that the memoir was in Ransom’s hands, but sometimes Marta wanted to escape the memories of her favourite patient, her friend. As the phone rang again, she let Paradiso fall to the floor and rolled off the couch in pursuit.

On the fourth ring, Marta picked up the landline receiver and croaked: “Hello?”

“You have a collect call from the Massachusetts State Penitentiary from...”

Marta nearly dropped the phone. _He’s calling me. Why is he calling me?_ She thought.

“Do you accept the charges?” 

“Yes.” The word sprung from her mouth before she could stop it. As anxiety quickly flooded her core, Marta exhaled and tried to remind herself: _You can hang up anytime._

Their meeting had taken place four weeks before. Marta kept a promise to her mother and didn’t go back, but she wondered nightly if he’d read the memoir. She knew it was crazy, but she wanted to talk about it with him. They were the only two people in the world who had read it, the only two people who really knew Harlan’s deepest thoughts.

“Cabrera, are you there?” Ransom asked, and Marta realized he must have been talking to her while she was lost in thought.

“I'm here.”

“Good. I figured you wouldn't even take the call, so--”

“What do you want, Ransom?” Her voice was low and calm. Marta wanted to project a version of herself that was annoyed with his call, but she couldn't properly express something that wasn’t really there.

“I read the damn thing.”

“Took you four weeks?” The calm was replaced by sarcasm, and she scolded herself for letting it slip out so easily. Something about his voice - something about hearing him but not seeing him gave her a confidence she was merely feigning in the visitor’s room.

Ransom chuckled. “Took me four hours, tops. Then I passed it around to all the members of my book club. We have thoughts, and I wanted to share them with you.”

Marta smiled. She was sitting on the floor, her legging-clad legs crossed in front of her. She pulled the edges of her long, burnt orange cardigan around her upper body with one hand and repositioned the receiver with the other. She was getting comfortable. 

“Are you still there?” He asked.

“I'm not just going to hang up,” she replied, almost immediately abandoning the safety precaution she’d created for herself when she’d accepted the charges.

“Why? There's nothing stopping you.”

Marta nodded in agreement, even though Ransom couldn't see her doing so, and softly admitted, “Even if I wanted to, it's just not something I would do.”

“But you would drive hours to give a book to the man who…” Ransom stopped talking, and Marta felt the tables turn. She did have the power this time. Unlike the in-person visit, he couldn't see the range of emotions play across her face - anger, confusion, excitement, pity, understanding, hope - and he couldn’t exploit them for his own gain. But power was only useful to those who wished to yield it, and Marta had never liked feeling superior. She had only ever wanted to feel safe.

“The memoir was meant for you,” she finally told him matter-of-factly.

“No, it was meant for his fans. The dedication was just another manipulation.”

Marta scoffed. “Is that what you think or your book club? Harlan wanted you to have it.”

“Well, if we’re taking his words as literal translations, then what do you say about his invitation to come home?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Come on, Cabrera. The man was practically begging me to take the house off his hands.”

“I don't think that’s what he meant.”

“According to his work, only one of us is his better half and the man clearly wrote: may you always know you can come home.” There was a lightness in Ransom’s voice suddenly, and Marta knew he was enjoying talking to her - and not just to _get under her skin._

“He was telling you he would always be there for you,” Marta explained.

“How would you know? There's nothing about you in the book.”

The first time Marta had read the memoir, her exclusion went unnoticed. The second time she had deduced the book had to have been written prior to her introduction as his personal nurse. But on the third time she finally noticed the retelling of a story she’d witnessed firsthand: a drunken encounter between Harlan and Walt in the foyer of the mansion. Marta was watching from behind the stairs. After an intoxicated Walt left, Harlan called out playfully to her: “Hiding only works when you breathe through your nose.” 

The memoir illustrated the real-life scene: Walt angrily screaming at his father, accusing him of caring more about fictional characters than his own children. At one point Walt swung for Harlan, perhaps a half-hearted punch. It failed and Walt found himself sprawled on the hardwood, panting. Marta felt her heart squeeze with pity as Walt cried out to his father, “You can’t even help your own son up?”

But the memoir had also glossed over a few things: not only was Marta’s presence completely excised, but so was Harlan’s reply. In the memoir he reached down and took Walt’s hand - end of chapter. In real-life, he stood motionless and waited while Walt struggled to his feet then out the front door.

“Hiding only works when you breathe through your nose,” Harlan had told her before casually suggesting a quick game of Go. At the time, Marta had complied, not wanting to pry into his personal affairs. Now, on the phone with Ransom, she wondered just what else Harlan had erased from his life story.

“I don't know how many times I can ask if you’re still there before these guards think I’m talking to the dial tone.” Ransom chuckled, as if to sell the joke, but Marta could tell he was serious - he didn’t want to lose the call.

“Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“You're always thinking,” he told her, as if it were an insult.

Marta ignored him. “You're right, I'm not in the memoir. And I'm sure there are other omissions, as well.”

“You're telling me. He completely ignored the all-out brawl between Meg and Jacob on her 15th birthday. It was incredible. The little snot got it so good.”

“Which one is the little snot?” Marta asked.

“Jacob, obviously. I like Meg, you know that. Hell, even Harlan knew that.” 

Marta hummed her reply, but the wheels were turning once again. “But if we’ve established that Harlan lied about or left out important life moments, then maybe he--”

Ransom knew where she was going and cut her off. “Wrote about how much he loved his oldest grandson and wanted more for him, but really didn't mean it?”

“It's possible.”

“Yeah, it's possible,” Ransom agreed, a little too quickly. “But that birthday brawl ended up with Meg accidentally punching Walt in the face when he tried to stop it. Got him right in the jaw and laid him out into the cake. I mean, that story practically writes itself."

“Maybe Harlan left it out on purpose. Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass Walt or make him look bad.” _Or make himself look bad,_ she thought. Marta wondered if two stories about his eldest son sprawled on the floor was one too many for a respected author like Harlan. _What does it say about a father when their adult child is... well, Walt._

“But Walt is bad," Ransom reminded her. "It's not just appearances, Cabrera."

“Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Call me by my last name?”

Marta could hear Ransom clearing his throat, perhaps trying to buy himself time to think of an answer. She assumed he called her “Cabrera” to insult her somehow - to pick at her nationality or to show he didn’t need to learn her first name because she wasn't worthy of one.

“I don't know,” he finally replied.

Marta squirmed, her legs growing restless beneath her. She had wanted to talk about the memoir with him for weeks now, but Ransom's observations were making her question the fondness she'd had for Harlan's words... maybe even the fondness she'd had for the man himself. She didn't like wondering if Harlan could be a liar because she was positive he had never lied to her.

“Fine, don't tell me” she said curtly, still annoyed that Ransom couldn't be bothered to use her first name when she had made every effort to use the ridiculous middle name he preferred. Sighing, unsure of how to continue, she finally said, “I'm sorry, but I've forgotten why you called.”

“Yeah, right.” He replied, his voice suddenly gruff. “I can see I interrupted-- I guess I-- whatever. I’ll let you go.”

The line clicked and Ransom was gone.

**********

“Miss Cabrera, you’re going to need to leave your cell phone here.” The guard was holding a plastic bin toward Marta and she reluctantly dropped her phone in with a groan.

The night before her visit to the prison, Marta and her mother had gotten into an argument. It was tense, a mix of English and Spanish - her mother’s arms gesticulating wildly, Marta’s shoulders hunched, heavy with guilt. 

“You promised,” her mother had shouted, as if a promise between the two of them was something that simply couldn’t be broken. “You said you would never see him again.”

Following the guard, back to the familiar visitor’s room, Marta longer for her cell phone. She was waiting for a reply to her many texts, but her mother was being stubborn. Marta couldn't blame her. It wasn’t just about breaking a promise, it was about seeing a killer, talking to a killer… somehow caring about a killer. Marta could no longer assure her mother it was something she could control.

As the thick metal door creaked open, Marta saw a crowded room of visitors and inmates. This time her arrival had been better planned and no strings needed pulling.

Ransom was waiting for her at the farthest table from the door and Marta strode toward him, careful not to catch the eye of some of the men around her - men she knew were staring. 

She was wearing a bit of makeup - just some concealer and blush - but it made her feel self-conscious. Her mother had accused her of prettying herself for Ransom, but she was simply trying to cover the severe lack of sleep that had plagued her since their disastrous phone call. She didn't want him to know she was lying awake at night going over every word.

“You're back,” Ransom said, as she slid into the seat across from him and this time, slipped off her coat. She rested it across her lap before looking him in the eye.

“I'm back.”

Marta wasn't sure what she had expected, but the smile that crossed Ransom’s face certainly hadn't been it. 

“What did you bring me?”

Marta raised an eyebrow and Ransom chuckled. “Sorry. I just assumed your visits were a means of bringing me presents.”

She knew he was trying to joke, perhaps as a way to apologize for how their phone call had ended, but Marta refused to bite. She felt bad - about the argument with her mother, about being rude to Ransom on the phone, about thinking Harlan’s memoir would somehow help him, help them both.

“I wanted to say that I didn't mean--”

Ransom held out his hand to stop her, his handcuffs rattling. Marta was surprised. The first time they’d met she had requested the meeting through her attorney - it had been a personal plea to the warden. That plea had also come with a sizable anonymous donation to the prison infirmary. 

“They're just wrist restraints,” he told her, once he caught her staring.

“Do they hurt?”

Ransom laughed. “Yeah, sometimes, but that probably shouldn't be your concern.” 

“I wanted to say--” again Ransom raised his hand, this time slower, as if trying to minimize the rattling of the chains.

“Don't apologize.” Ransom sighed. “It was me.”

Before Marta could process, he continued, “Did you drive all the way here for that?”

“For your apology?” Marta asked.

“I didn't apologize,” he explained. “And you shouldn't either. We’ll just put it behind us and move on.”

Marta took the coat off her lap and placed it on the chair to her left before leaning closer, resting her arms on the table. “Move on?”

She was intrigued, and she didn't care that Ransom knew it. He followed suit, letting his elbows rest on the cool metal before him, a grin forming on his face. “Yeah, I think so.”

“And what does your book club think?” Marta playfully asked.

“Oh, they definitely think chapters four through eight we pure filler.”

“But those were his college years, the place he met his first love,” Marta protested.

“Or those are the years he cheated off a girl too crazy in love with him to realize she was being used. You gotta learn to read between the lines, Cabr--” Ransom stiffened for just a moment before barrelling through the awkwardness. “We both know this memoir is more fiction than truth, Marta.”

“Oh, yeah? Well then, Ransom, what else did he get wrong?”

**********

PRESENT DAY

“You liked the attention,” Blanc posited, his coffee now finished, the empty mug simply a prop for his hands to play with.

“I never said that,” Marta replied. 

“No, of course not. People rarely admit that they need an emotional connection. We’ve been taught as adults it's an act of weakness.”

Marta scoffed. “I'm not sure how you were raised, but my mother showed love at every turn.”

“I have no doubt, but when was the last time you felt the love of a man?”

Marta’s eyes widened in shock, as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Oh, please, don't think me crass, Marta. But we all have needs.” The way he slowly strung out the word _needs_ rubbed Marta the wrong way. She knew how it looked, but there was nothing sexual about her relationship with Ransom. As if reading her mind, Blanc continued. “Now, I'm not suggesting anything untoward…”

“Untoward?” Marta gasped, turning her back on Blanc and stomping out of the kitchen. “I can assure you Ransom and I have not-- we’re not--” She stumbled over her words as she navigated the boxes and pushed into the study. “And even if we were, it would not be untoward.”

_What the hell, Marta?_ She screamed at herself. _What would you add that?_

Blanc was hot on her heels, his path through the boxes now a matter of course. “I do not mean to say lust is untoward, or even sex, Marta. Just that lusting after a man who tried to kill you, let alone having sex with that man--”

Marta spun around and shouted, “Enough!”

Blanc nodded his understanding.

Lowering her voice back to a normal pitch she said, “I will admit a certain attraction to… Ransom.”

“Marta, you don't have to--”

“No, I’m the one who asked you here. You were right about that. And I want to tell you the whole story, but I don't know the whole story. What I do know is that any attraction I have toward him is not sexual.”

For a moment they both stood unmoving in the study, each waiting for her internal lie detector to reveal the truth. When nothing happened, Marta sighed - her relief a surprise to them both.

“My apologies, Marta. Truly, I only meant to imply that wanting human connection is not something to be ashamed of,” he said, sincerity dripping from his pores. “But I have noticed your mother’s absence.”

“She left.”

“How long ago?”

“Almost a year now.”

When Marta had returned to the big house on the hill following her second visit with Ransom, her mother had not been home. At first, Marta thought her mother was staying out, perhaps shopping or sitting in a coffee shop, so they wouldn't have to talk about the visit or the argument they’d had. When she didn't return that evening, Marta wondered if it was a power play - a move to force Marta to see what she would lose if she kept visiting Ransom Drysdale. By the next morning, Marta was panicked and calling everyone her mother knew. Alice was her last call. She hadn’t wanted to worry her sister, who was away at school in New York, but when Alice answered with a snarky _What?_ Marta knew their mother was there. 

“She moved to New York to be closer to my sister while she’s away at college,” Marta continued, thankful that Blanc didn’t press for more than that.

As he stepped over another stack of boxes and found his way back to the tiny sofa, the original trial transcript laid out before him, Blanc asked, “Why did you really call me, Marta?”

“I told you why. We have to make sure Richard doesn't get away with this.”

“If my recollection holds, Richard Drysdale was not and is not a good man. A philandering husband, an absent father, a terrible businessman, a con artist, and bigot.”

“Yes, but not a murderer,” Marta reminded him.

“If a father wants to absolve himself of the guilt he feels after years of neglect and help his son get out of prison, I'm not sure what I can do to stop that.”

“You're acting like this is completely normal.”

“For this family, I'm afraid it is, Marta.”

“Lying about killing Fran doesn't absolve Ransom.”

“But hasn’t three years in prison and a year of being your friend led you to believe Ransom Drysdale is now a better man?”

Marta exhaled loudly. _There he goes again, reading my mind._


End file.
